


Letters

by OneLastMiracle (orphan_account)



Series: Untitled [17]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/OneLastMiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had already been half a year when John found them shoved in his desk drawer. Immediately they brought back memories, specifically of their author.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series of small drabbles, done for the 30 Drabble A Day challenge. Not necessarily connected, can be read as a standalone or small parts. All stories are not necessarily in the same universe, so there may be little to no continuity. Maybe some Johnlock, but can easily be read as just friendship. Enjoy!

It had already been half a year when John found them shoved in his desk drawer. Immediately they brought back memories, specifically of their author.

Sherlock had been more annoying than usual, and John was at his wit’s end from having to deal with his insufferable flatmate. The genius was bored and bothering him. Entirely fed up, John had answered, throwing his hands into the air. “If you’re so bored, go and-… I don’t know, write a letter or something!”

Sherlock had glowered at him briefly before stomping off, presumably to sulk elsewhere. At the time, John didn’t think Sherlock even considered to heed his advice and do just that. But all this time later, John found his assumption wrong, when he happened upon the crumpled and torn papers.

Since Sherlock had- since then, John found himself more and more drawn to his old friend’s letters. By now, he knew them by heart, and not only the words; each crease, tear stain (his own, obviously), ink spot, thumb print was forever etched into his memory.

Usually, they read plainly, nothing extravagant or flashy- as John had assumed- to betray the intelligence of the author. Sherlock didn’t waste time with pleasantries, John noticed, he began the letters simply with the intended names (more often than not, John’s own name was scrawled there) and would begin in his terrible chicken scratch.

He always found that funny; the smartest man he knew had the calligraphy skills and penmanship of a child. It was an odd contradiction.

Sherlock was also, as he was in person, straight to the point, cutting out the “extraneous fluff” as he would call it.

But John read them often, the letters. If it had been anyone else, he would have thought it to be more of a diary, detailing his life and personal matters. Perhaps he should have stayed away, out of respect for the dead and whatnot. But this was _Sherlock_ , and he needed it.

Years passed since then, but the letters did not fade from his memory; it was often that he would carefully remove the hastily crumpled papers, allowing himself this small pleasure. _They_ never changed, at least.

Until one morning, nearly three years after the Fall, John opened the well worked drawer, and paused a moment.

There, admist the yellowing bits of parchment, lay a crisp white envelope, his name clearly addressed on the front.

 _John Hamish Watson_ was written in a thick bold pen, the calligraphy flawless.

  
With trembling hands, he bend to pick up the new letter, cracking the seal. Turning it over in his hands, John retrieved the thick paper within, unfolding it and reading what was written there:

_Dear John,_

  
_I’m home._

  
_-Sherlock Holmes_


End file.
